Soup
by SilverCascade
Summary: Sam is sick. Dean makes some tomato-rice soup to help him get better. Wee!chesters, just brothers being brothers. One-shot.


**A/N: **_Thanks to Shauna for help with editing this._

* * *

It was a typical night for the Winchester brothers cooped up in the seedy motel. Dean, a youngster at eight, sat on the sagging couch, feet kicking out absently as he watched the classic movie playing. _This channel sucks,_ he thought, but didn't say anything. The movie was in black-and-white; the main character would scream melodramatically and spurt some dark blood as the bumbling, screeching monster cut into him. Dean knew his father fought monsters, and that they did not compare to ones in the cruddy movie. His daddy had come back from work on several occasions looking a lot worse for the wear than the suited man on the screen, and he didn't even wince. His daddy was more of a hero than the 'hero' of the movie.

Sam, only four years younger, was curled up in a faded blanket beside him, his eyes wide and watchful, observing the film as it played. He took it in without his brother's skepticism, until a sudden churning in his stomach made him grimace. "Ow," he groaned, "ow ow ow!"

Dean threw a concerned look at his brother. "Sam, you okay?" he asked.

Shaking his head, Sam pointed to his stomach. "My belly hurts."

"Sammy," Dean sighed, "get a grip."

Sam shook his head, shivering. His brother noticed he looked paler, and his own stomach knotted in response. "I'm also really cold-" Sam coughed himself hoarse; Dean's fist thumped him on the back. "I think I'm sick," he said, eyes watering.

"You're just fine." Dean couldn't deal with something like this. If Sam was indeed sick, and if it was something serious, he didn't know what to do. His dad was out on a hunting trip.

"I don't feel fine. Dean, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you, Sam." He took the dull blue blanket from his own shoulders and tucked it around his brother, who pulled it close. "You're gonna be alright."

"How do you know?" Sam's stomach swam again, and his vision blurred. He reached out from his cocoon of blankets and grabbed Dean's shoulder; his brother steadied him until the haze cleared. Placing a hand to Sam's forehead, he flinched at the heat. He didn't know what it meant, only that it could not be good.

"'Cause I'm gonna make you something great," he said, getting to his feet and heading to the kitchen-like sink. "I'm gonna make you tomato-rice soup."

Sam scrunched up his nose but his brother did not see; Dean was too busy dragging the large stool over to the side of the counter. He hoisted himself up and clambered onto the cheap wooden worktop, swinging open the cabinet. "That sounds icky!"

"It's really good," Dean replied, finding the sachet of instant soup mix. He creaked the fridge door open and rustled around until he found the leftover rice from last night's take-out. "Trust me. Mom made it the bestest. It's like magic - fixes you right up! I'm gonna make it like that."

"If Dad was here, he could make it," Sam pouted, "or Mom could, if we had a mom."

"We don't have a mom anymore," snapped his brother, "and Dad's working. So quit it."

Silence was the only answer he received, and the movie blared out, finding its place as meaningless background noise. The older Winchester worked with it; he tore open the sachet successfully, albeit spilling some powder onto the counter, and poured it into a bowl. Adding some water and mixing in the fried-rice from the greasy container, he shoved the mix into the microwave for a few minutes. Waiting, he stood on the chair, tapping out some beat on the worktop with his fingers, an old tune from his daddy's mixed tape of which the name he could not remember.

Sam sat sniffling, watching the movie but not fully absorbing it.

The machine pinged and carefully, like his Daddy had taught him, he took the tea towel and wrapped it around his hands before opening the small door and pulling out the steaming bowl of food. He glanced into the ceramic mug that felt warm under his grip. Red, soupy clumps floated in the pinkish water, and the rice, steaming and soggy, had settled at the bottom. It did not look much like the soup his mother had made him; he stirred it with a spoon, hoping it tasted better than it looked.

Balancing the cup between his palms, he blew on the mixture a little to cool it and tottered over to Sam. He handed it over.

"Careful, it's hot."

Stubby fingers wrapping around the soup bowl, Sam blew on it. Soft, ashy wisps of steam curled away. He took a sip. Dean sat beside him, expectant. It was only a small sip, and honestly, Sam thought it tasted foul. The rice was limp and the soup powder had not been properly mixed in, and little lumps still floated on the skin. But Dean's eyes shone at him, waiting for his verdict - it was the only one that mattered.

He swallowed it back and smiled, thankful for the fact that it was actually hot. "It's really good, Dean!"

Dean leaned back, satisfied with his job, a job well done. A smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched Sam drink one sip at a time. As he ate and drank, Sam realized that the more he did so, the more he liked it. It seemed to be an acquired taste, and by the time he was reaching for the spoon to scrape the rice from the bottom, he contemplated asking his big brother for another mug.

"What did I tell you?" Dean's smile grew larger as Sam gobbled up the last of it. Taking the mug from his brother's little hands, he took it to the sink, leaving the younger boy leaning his head on the pillow and staring at the TV. Dean rinsed out the mug, scrubbing at it with a coarse sponge until all traces of food had run down the drain. He placed it on the rack to dry.

Meanwhile, Sam curled up tighter into the blankets, and Dean shivered in the kitchen; it was far too cold to be sleeping only in the thin pajamas he wore, but he would rather Sam be warm than himself. _He's sick,_ he thought, _and he needs to be warm. When Dad gets back, I'll tell him. He'll give Sammy medicine and he'll be better._

The young Winchester's belly was warm and full, and his eyelids grew heavier and heavier until he could no longer hold them up; he let out another little snuffle and closed his eyes. Eventually his breathing evened and he slept, safe and sound under his brother's vigilant care.

Dean placed the spoon back on the metal frame and put the wrappers in the bin. He took out a little slice of leftover pie from the day before, sliding it out onto a plate and sticking a fork in the crumbling pastry. Sure, it meant more washing up, but he needed a sugary distraction right now. If Sam wanted some, he could share Dean's, and the boy was thoughtful to leave some for his father should he want any.

"Sam?" he called, walking around to the side of the sofa. Not receiving a reply, he hurried over to his brother, only to realize the youngster was sleeping, a light snore occasionally leaving his half-open mouth. Sam turned and his blankets came loose. Dean put the pie onto the stained coffee table and tucked the blankets tightly around Sam.

Picking the food back up, he sat on the sofa beside his brother, placing the plate on his lap. He turned down the volume to the barest minimum and turned to his brother, checking that he was all right before he enjoyed his treat for the night.

"Sleep tight, Sammy," he said, before tucking in.


End file.
